Mommy's Campus Sissy

I locked the door of my own apartment from the inside, which was the first lie. I told myself it was so my roommate would not walk in. The truth sat lower than that, in the heat already gathering behind my zipper before she had even arrived, and I hated that it answered her name faster than I did.

Her name was Mommy. She had told me that in week one, across a library table, while I still thought I was the one running the conversation. I was twenty-eight, second-year, the teaching assistant other assistants asked for help. I graded papers with a red pen and a clean conscience. I did not kneel for anyone.

She knocked twice. Just twice. My whole body went tight like a string tuned a half step too high, and there it was, the thing I could not explain to myself, the way my cock filled before my hand even reached the lock. I was wet at the tip already. That early. That stupid.

I opened the door and she walked past me like the room was hers.

“You showered,” she said. Not a question. She set her bag on my desk, on top of the essays I had been pretending to grade. “Good boy.”

The words landed somewhere I did not give permission for. Heat climbed my neck. I am a grown man, I thought, and the thought arrived limp, already losing, because my pulse was knocking in a place no proud thought reaches.

She turned and looked at me the way you look at something you already own and are deciding how to use. Vaughn. That was the only other name I had for her, and she never let me say it. She wore gray, expensive, nothing soft about it. Her nails were the softest thing in the room and they were not soft.

“Take off your jeans,” she said.

My hands went to my belt. That fast. Some back room of my skull was screaming that this was the moment to laugh it off, to say I had grading to do, to be the man who graded papers with a clean conscience, and the screaming did not reach my fingers. The buckle opened. The denim slid down. I stepped out of it on my own apartment floor and stood there in a plain T-shirt and the thing she had locked on me nine days ago.

The cage caught the lamplight. Pink. Polycarbonate. A little curved cradle of plastic that held my cock folded and useless, with a brass padlock the size of a thumbnail hanging off it. I had begged her, the first night, to use a metal one, a serious one, something that looked like discipline. She had laughed and chosen pink. Because it would embarrass me more. Because she was right.

“Still leaking through it,” she said. She crouched, unhurried, and tapped the plastic once with a nail. The tap rang straight up into me and I made a sound I did not plan. “Nine days and you drip like a faucet. Most men would be ashamed.”

“I am,” I said. My voice came out wrong, thin.

“No,” she said. “You like it. That’s different.” She stood. “Say what you are.”

The room got very quiet. Outside, somebody’s skateboard rattled down the path. I taught two sections of composition. I had a thesis committee. I held the whole architecture of who I was in front of me like a shield and she looked through it like glass.

“Say it.”

“I’m leaking,” I said.

“That’s not what I asked.” She walked to her bag and unzipped it slowly, letting the sound stretch. “You know the word. I want to hear my sissy say it before we start.”

There. Sissy. The word went through the cage like a current and the plastic strained against me and I hated my body, I hated it, the way it leapt to a leash it had spent twenty-eight years pretending it could not feel. The man with the red pen was somewhere very far away now, waving.

“I’m your sissy,” I said.

“Whose.”

“Mommy’s. I’m Mommy’s sissy.”

“Good.” She lifted something out of the bag and the breath went out of me.

It was a slip. Pale, the color of the inside of a shell, with a band of lace along the hem so fine it looked drawn on. She held it up between two fingers and let it fall open. Silk. Real silk, the kind that pours.

“On the bed,” she said. “Arms up.”

I want to tell you I hesitated. I climbed onto my own bed and lifted my arms like a child being dressed, and the part of me that knew better did not recoil this time, it leaned in, and that was worse than any of it. She pulled my T-shirt over my head. Then the silk came down over me, cool, sliding, catching on my nipples on the way down, and I shivered so hard the bed creaked.

“Look at you,” she said. She smoothed the slip down my chest with both palms, slow, and the silk dragged over my skin and pooled the heat back down into the cage. “Pretty. You were always going to be pretty. You just needed someone to make you.”

The lace lay against my thighs. I could feel my own breath moving the fabric. I was hard inside a cage that would not let me be hard, which meant I throbbed and went nowhere, a pressure with no exit, building and building, and she had not even touched me yet.

“Mommy,” I said, and I did not know what I was asking for.

“Hush.” She climbed over me. Her knee pressed the silk between my legs, right over the cage, and the lace bunched and the plastic ground against the root of me and I bucked up into it like an animal. “There he is. There’s my needy girl.”

The word should have made me flinch. It made me leak again, a hot pulse I could feel run down the plastic, and her knee pressed harder and caught it and smeared it into the silk, and she watched my face the whole time.

“You feel that?” she said. “How fast you go from a man with opinions to this?” She rolled her knee. My hips chased it. “Two weeks ago you corrected my grammar. Now you’re rutting against my leg in a slip, begging with your hips because your mouth is too proud to do it yet.” She leaned down. Her mouth touched my ear. “We’re going to fix the proud part tonight.”

Every nerve I had stood up. I should stop this, I thought, and even the thought knew it was a costume, because my hands were already gripping the sheets to hold myself open for her instead of pushing her off, and the gap between those two things, the man I described myself as and the body doing the describing’s exact opposite, cracked open under me like ice.

She sat back. She reached into the bag again and this time she took her time, letting me watch her hand move around inside it, letting me imagine. When her hand came out it was full.

Black leather, buckled straps, and rising off the front of it a curve of silicone, deep purple, ridged along the underside, longer than anything I had let myself look at directly. She held it in her lap and looked at me holding the slip down over my caged cock with both shaking hands.

“You know what this is for,” she said.

I could not speak. My throat had closed around the answer.

“Say thank you,” she said. “Before, not after. I want to know you mean it.” She started working the harness up her thighs, settling it, cinching the buckle at her hip with a click I felt in my teeth. “A sissy thanks Mommy for what she’s about to take.”

She uncapped a bottle. The lube was cold when it hit me and I jumped and she pressed me back down with one flat hand on my belly, over the silk, and held me there. One finger circled. Just circled, slow, while my whole body strained against the small cruel pressure of the cage and found no relief in any direction.

“Knees up, girl,” she said. “Hold the pretty dress out of my way.”

I gathered the silk up to my waist with both fists. I pulled my own knees back toward my chest. I opened myself on my own bed, in my own locked apartment, under the lamp I grade by, and the last thing the proud version of me managed was a single useless thought that this was the door, this was the very last second I could still close it, and my body had already kicked it off the hinges.

Her finger pushed in to the first knuckle.

“Thank you,” I heard myself whisper, and I meant it, God help me, and she smiled and reached for my hips with both hands and lined the head of it up against me, slick and blunt and patient, and started, very slowly, to press.